Every Ugly

Every day, I wake up. I look in the mirror, and gag. Is that really me? Since when was I that ugly? Every day, I wake up. I go to school, and see other people gag. Who is that girl? What is wrong with her face? Every day, I wake up. I walk around town, and watch as strangers cross to the other side of the street when they see me coming. Don’t look directly in her eyes, they tell their children. That girl is absolutely ghastly. Every day, I wake up. I go home, and see my family try to hide their disappointment. How did she turn out so bad? We’re all ok, what happened to her? Every day, I wake up. I fall asleep, long after midnight, silently crying, alone, and scared. Is this really me? Since when was I that ugly? Every day, I wake up. I go through the pain, the torture, the sadness. Every day, I suffer. I thought about it. I thought about it a lot. Who would miss me? Who would cry over me? Who would shed a tear? One day, I woke up. I went to this guy. He didn't look me in the eye, but nobody ever does. He gave me a package. A small, brown package. I thanked him, as he ran away. I went home. Nobody else was in. Up to the bathroom, one last look out of the window, and opened up the package. A single, white pill, lay on the counter. I took a sip of water, and stuck it into my mouth. That day, something changed. As I was about to swallow, as I was about to welcome death, I saw a boy, on the other side of the street, with slumped shoulders, and looking down. He was as ugly as I was, if not uglier. And I knew, at last, I’d found someone who would shed a tear.

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